“Bound east,” continued the man.  “From Majuri.”

“What is wrong with her?” inquired the old host.

Boats going west, that is, towards Naples and Civita Vecchia often put in to the small natural harbours to wait for the night wind.  Those going east never do except for some especial reason.

The man said nothing, but fixed his eyes on Antonino and slowly filled his pipe, evidently intending to convey some secret piece of information by the look and action.  But the old sailor’s stolid face did not betray the slightest intelligence.  He turned away and deliberately took half-a-dozen salted sprats from a keg behind the counter and laid them in a dish preparatory to cleaning them for his own supper.  The man who had spoken to him seemed annoyed, but only shrugged his shoulders impatiently and went on eating and drinking.

Antonino took a jug of water and went outside to wash his fish.  The two boys offered to do it for him, but he shook his head.  He did not speak until he had almost finished.

“We will fish to-night,” he said at last, in a low voice, pouring a final rinsing of water into the dish.  “Sleep in the sand under the third boat from the rocks.  I will wake you when I am ready.”

He looked from one to the other of the lads with a keen glance, and then laid one huge finger against his lips.  He drained the water from his dish and went in again.

“Come along,” said Ruggiero softly.  “Let us find the boat and get out of the way.”

The craft was a small “gozzo,” or fisherman’s boat, not above a dozen or fourteen feet long, sharp and much alike at bow and stern, but with a high stem surmounted by a big ball of wood, very convenient for hanging nets upon.  It was almost dark by this time, but the boys saw that she was black as compared with the other boats on both sides of her.  She was quite empty and lay high and dry on three low chocks.  Ruggiero lay down, getting as close to the keel as he could and Sebastiano followed his example.  They lay head to head so that they could talk in a whisper.

“Why are we not to speak of his fishing?” asked the younger boy.

“Who knows?  But if we do as he tells us he will give us more bread to-morrow.”

“He is very good to us.”

“Because we beat Don Pietro Casale.  Don Pietro cheated him last year.  I saw the cottonseed oil he mixed with the good, in that load we brought down.”

“Perhaps the fishing is not for fish,” suggested little Sebastiano, curling himself up and laying his head on the end of the chock.

They did not know what time it was when Don Antonino gently stirred them with his big foot.  They sprang up wide awake and saw in the starlight that he had a pair of oars and a coil of rope in his hands.

“As I launch her, take the chocks from behind and put them in front,” he said in a low voice.